no mans land

i am a no-man's-land.
my body (if one ever were
to see it)
is the gut of the guttural train
at night,
spurting oils and sputtering silences.

i have been told my hands are soft
by the midmorning people that
walk me home with the drink
in their other.

i suspect, if one
ever were to see it,
the train at night
with its lonely harbours of
single aging men clutching
beer-batter-spattered brownbags
of dusty luncheons

is a bit
of my heart.

(you'd think that
since i bleed the ink
of art and highbrow
highballs
i'd say some shit like
the autopsy of my heart
would be bleeding, feeling,
pulsing & red to be
preserved in a canopic jar)

but we are not supposed to feel
such things. that
is reserved for the
cross-sex-tion of girls
18-21 who understand what
it is to love.

which is why i spend so much time
thinking on trains---that extra
minute afforded me without
a mouth to miss

though i do wish
someone would kiss the
perfect eyeliner or the
smudge of mascara off the long
night
as if to say
i notice you, you brushed your
hair today

or to see
my foundation found the nation of my scarred skin
conquerable for one night
(or at least at christmas truce)